This apple tree was there long before the neighbourhood was built, a remnant of the farmstead that once occupied this strip of land.
It was a small wonder to have trees like this, belonging to no one, and giving away its fruits. It was a small, gnarled tree that had been ill for some years, and his fruits spotted, acid, imperfect. I knew the city would remove it eventually, but never forgot to offer my thanks.
The poem did rhyme in its French form, but I endeavoured to keep the rythm alive.
Echoes of a Sunday artist 